Solace
by quoththeblackbird
Summary: My hands scrabble for Gale's arm as I throw up all over his shoes. He holds me up and I lean against his solid body. An hour ago I'd yelled and cursed at him.  Now I couldn't care less about his motivations and mind games. All I want is comfort.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my first published fic, so please bear with me. I'm partial to the map of Panem that places district seven in the northern Montana/southern Canada area, so mixed snow and rain in early September is really not that unusual. Set during Mockingjay, Katniss/Gale friendship (or romance if you want to construe it that way, which you shouldn't because I'm team Peeta), a little Katniss/Haymitch friendship as well. Oh, and I don't own the Hunger Games. It would be really cool if I did.

**Solace**

When I wake, it takes me a moment to realize why I feel so bad. Well, I know why my head is throbbing. That would be the fault of Johanna Mason and the concussion she gave me back in the arena. I have to think hard before I remember what I dread about today. We're going to district 7 today for more filming. Cressida insists that I'm wonderful on camera and we badly need more footage for the propos. I'm worn out and in a chronically bad mood, though, from all the filming we've already done and seeing Peeta's interview. Plus my headaches have gotten worse.

I lie in bed for a minute, holding a wad of balled up blankets to my aching temple. Once it's clear that my headache won't go away by sheer will, I get up, dress in my mockingjay outfit, and decide not to even bother getting my schedule. I head down to the dining hall where I find my mother, Prim, and Gale already sitting at our table. Once I have my tray of hot grain and baked apples, I join them. I told my mother about today's trip to 7 as soon as I found out about it in command yesterday. She knows I could very well encounter violence like I did during our visit to 8. She's worried, and she won't meet my eyes, but I can feel her looking back at me each time I look away.

I look down at my tray, not impressed with my breakfast. I start to poke at the apples with my spoon. "You ready for today?" Gale asks.

"Sure," I say flatly. "You? Ready for another day as cousin-bodyguard?"

"Sure," he echoes. I nod, resting my elbow on the table and propping my sore head in my hand.

I take a bite of apples. The fruit feels gluey on my tongue. The taste is off; the usually pleasant tangy flavor seems too strong, too acidic in my mouth. I swallow quickly and take a swig of milk to cleanse my palate, but that tastes bad too. I set my glass down, trying not to show my distaste and reveal that I feel queasy. I drop my spoon in the bowl of grain, which has congealed, and I decide not to even try to eat it. I'd rather feel hungry later than more sick now. I push my tray toward Gale. "Want some?" I ask.

He gives me a look, and I know he knows that I feel bad. He doesn't say anything, though. My mother and Prim already know that my headaches have been worse lately, and this morning they are already busy worrying about the filming in district 7. No need to pile on more concerns just now.

Gale drinks down my milk, then stands to leave. I hug my mother and Prim and tell them not to worry. The filming won't take too long and I'll be back with them at dinner. At least I hope I will.

Gale and I leave the dining room and start toward the hanger. "Don't you have to see the preps? Get all polished up?" Gale asks with a slight grin.

"Not anymore. Haymitch finally convinced everyone that I look more realistic in the propos when I don't wear makeup," I reply. I'm glad to bypass getting fancied up today. I don't think I'd have the patience to sit still for the preps to do their work.

I absently rub my temple as we walk. "How bad is it?" Gale asks.

"Eh," I say, "Not too bad. Not the worst." The worst was about ten days ago, when Gale and I were in training. We were doing the sort of moving target archery practice I had done when training for my second stint in the Hunger Games. I had been trying to hit all six fake birds soaring over my head, but suddenly I just couldn't focus on my targets anymore. My head, which had been throbbing dully since early morning, felt like someone was driving a hot poker into my temple. I'd dropped my bow and stumbled toward the edge of the training area, clutching my head. I made it out of everyone's way before I threw up. Then Gale and somebody else—Boggs, maybe?—were at my side. I vaguely remember groaning with pain and nausea as tiny stars flickered at the edges of my vision and Gale holding me. Then I was in the hospital with my mother standing over my bed.

A huge debate had followed the incident about whether I should be put on medication to dull the pain of my headaches. I was present at three long command meetings during which Coin had presented spectacularly constructed arguments in favor of me taking the pills. Our mockingjay couldn't be ill when she was so integral to the rebel cause; if I ended up in combat I would need to have my full strength, I had suffered enough pain when I went through the Games, and so on. Plutarch added his reasons as well, but I didn't listen to them much. I was already too angry with Coin.

No matter what they said, I refused the medication. I remembered all too well the hallucinations and mental fog I had experienced when I took pain pills after my second Games. I had brought up this fact several times during the command meetings. Didn't the mockingjay need a clear head in the face of danger? However, my real thought was, how much are you going to manipulate me, Coin, when I'm strong bodied and weak minded? Will you just make me do your bidding and know that I can't fight back? In the end, I was allowed to make up my own mind. It wouldn't have looked good for me to be on bad terms with Coin and Plutarch.

"Is it close to the worst?" Gale asks, his brow furrowing, "You really don't look so great."

"No, it's not that bad," I say, which is true, but I know that my strength and reflexes aren't as good as they need to be if we end up in combat.

We enter the hanger, where Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida, Boggs, and the insect cameramen are waiting for us. Cressida looks me up and down and says, "We really should have sent you to the prep team." I know I probably have circles under my eyes, but I don't think I look that bad.

As we're led to our hovercraft, I notice that one of the doors to the outside is open. A stream of sunlight comes in through the door. I dash toward it, taking in a deep breath of clean, outside air. It smells like grass and dirt and home. I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the breeze on my face, soothing my head a little.

I've had barely ten seconds of bliss before Boggs comes to collect me. He keeps his hand stiffly at the small of my back until we are on board the hovercraft. I immediately take a seat across from Haymitch and help myself to a glass of water from the pitcher on the table before me. I sip the cool liquid and hold the glass to my temple. I'm finally pulling myself together.

The hovercraft ride to district 7 is expected to take about two hours. Once we get there, the plan is for me and Gale to walk around and look at buildings and talk to people in order to get the largest possible amount of usable footage with minimal effort and danger. I rest the less achy side of my head on Gale's shoulder and close my eyes, swearing that I'm awake and listening as we are lectured about the district layout and the schedule and the earpieces. After over an hour of this, I really do start to doze off. I'm bored and losing my patience, which has seemed only barely present lately.

Suddenly a fist bangs down on the table. "Shit," Haymitch spits. I bolt upright, making myself dizzy and bringing back the pain. I'm sure I'm about to be yelled at for sleeping or not listening, or something. "Can't we go around it? Where the hell did it come from?" What is he talking about? "Fuck it, we're closer to 7 than 13 by now. Just—whatever. Just get us there without killing us."

Haymitch pulls an earpiece from his ear and slams it down on the table. I feel a tinge of resentment that he is doing exactly what he's screamed at me for doing numerous times before.

"Uh, what was that?" Gale asks.

Plutarch answers. "Pilot. Weather system coming up." I realize that he, and possibly everyone except Gale and me, is also in communication with the pilot. "It's probably going to get a bit turbulent."

Gale presses his lips together and nods. He's such a rock, so strong and steady. I, however, drop my forehead to the table and groan. I don't know exactly how this latest development will affect me, but I can guess that I'll be in pretty rough shape when we land.

"Katniss?" Cressida asks, "Would you like to tell us what's going on?" She sounds genuinely concerned, but I've had enough. I'm tired, I haven't slept well, I can't stop thinking about Peeta being tortured and used by the Capitol, my head hurts, I didn't eat breakfast, I feel sick, I feel like crying, and I don't want to film anything today!

"Just a fucking headache," I say through my gritted teeth, "Just like every fucking day of my fucking life."

I hear the bottle of pills slide across the table. I pick it up with one hand and hold my forehead with the other.

"Just take one. You'll feel better. Almost instantaneously, I promise," Plutarch says. I palm the bottle for a moment, then, without looking up, throw it at Plutarch's head. I hear it hit the wall behind him.

"No," I say, though I've already made this clear. Then, stupidly, I mutter, "It's not that bad." But it is. The pain hasn't reached its worst yet, but everything else has. My stomach roils a bit, and I squeeze my eyes shut to keep back the nausea and the tears.

"Katniss," Gale whispers, his face close to mine. He lays his big, warm hand on my back. "I know. I know it's bad. Just take it. You'll be okay. We've got you. I've got you."

I pull away sharply. "Fuck you Gale!" I say angrily, "You know why I don't take them. And you said you agreed with me!" I stand and shove my chair away, moving as far as I can from the table.

I've barely made it to the alcove where our weapons are stacked in their heavy crates when the first wave of turbulence hits the hovercraft. I stumble a little and end up banging my shoulder into the wall before I sink to my knees. I know this behavior is not helping my case with everyone else, but I can't make myself care. The pressure of holding back tears is only making my headache worse, so I let them fall.

Gale knows why I don't take the pills. At first, he'd sided with Plutarch and Coin, saying that I should accept the medicine. He'd told me that he couldn't bear to see me in pain, especially not after seeing me suffer through the Games twice on television. Once I'd confided in him about the pills messing with my head and my speculation of Coin's motivations, Gale had changed his mind. He said I was right. I was strong.

But now he's changed his mind; he wants me the pain-relieved fog. Is he really so upset by the sight of me in pain? Is he trying to take care of me because he loves me? Or is Coin using him to manipulate me? Did someone tell him to do this? Or is the rebel cause more important to him than I am?

I feel nauseous and warm, so I pull off my bulletproof vest and curl onto my side. I close my eyes and try to block everything out. I've finally begun to breathe deeply and evenly when I hear footsteps behind me. Whoever it is sits down beside me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Go away," I grunt, thinking it's Gale.

"Sorry sweetheart." It's Haymitch. I roll onto my back to face him, but the position isn't comfortable. I feel sicker and more unsettled. I meet Haymitch's eyes, then return to my fetal position.

"I respect you, sweetheart. A lot. But you gotta deal with the consequences," He says with a slight sigh.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I'll be okay. Just lemme out when we land." Haymitch chuckles softly and pats my shoulder. He stands up to leave, but he falls down again as the floor bounces beneath us. My head throbs immensely, and I close my eyes.

I've somehow managed to force myself into a light sleep, but I jerk back awake as we land bumpily in district 7. I squeeze my eyes shut until we've stopped moving, although it's hard to tell because I'm feeling so dizzy. I struggle to my feet and walk drunkenly toward the door of the hovercraft, one hand holding my temple, the other in the small of my back.

The door opens and I step out into district 7. I am immediately confused by what I see. The sky is thick with clouds in varying shades of white and gray. The ground and buildings that I can see have a wet, soupy appearance. Coming down from the sky is an assortment of large raindrops and thick, feathery, white snowflakes. I take a few steps and slip in a manner that would be funny if it didn't hurt so much. I slide down and land on my bottom in the soaked grass and mud. The impact makes my entire body hurt, but especially my head and weak stomach.

Hands come out of nowhere and pull me to my feet. It's Gale. Once I'm fairly steady I shove past him and continue walking away from the hovercraft. I feel so sick, so horrible. My temple is beginning throb in prickling stabs. I feel clammy pins and needles all over my body, and I'm too warm even though freezing rain is stinging my face. Pale stars begin to form at the edges of my vision. I stop walking and breathe deeply, trying to focus on something around me. The snowflakes whirling by make me feel dizzier than ever, and I know I'm swaying a little. My mouth is filling with thick saliva.

Gale appears next to me again. "Katniss? What's wrong?" He asks.

"I'mna puke," I barely manage to whisper-groan before I'm doubled over. My hands scrabble for Gale's arm as I throw up all over his shoes. He holds me up and I lean gratefully against his solid body. An hour ago I'd yelled and cursed at him. Now I couldn't care less about his motivations and mind games. Now his security is all I want. Oh, well. I guess that's just what happens when you're sick out of your mind.

It doesn't take much to completely empty my stomach. I'm still hunched over, and Gale puts one of his hands, which is now cool and wet, on the back of my neck. I breathe and spit for a moment as my vision returns.

When I'm able to straighten up, I look into Gale's eyes, then slowly start walking again. Gale matches my pace and keeps his arm around my shoulders. I feel a little better, but my head is still very painful and I'm shivering as though I'm slightly feverish. I breathe in the cold air and focus my eyes on the buildings that are maybe 200 yards away.

We haven't made it too far when a low droning buzz fills my ears. At first I don't know if the sound is real or if it's just in my head, but Gale cocks his head and I know he hears it too. I look around, trying not to make myself too dizzy, and I just see it through the blowing snow and rain—a capital fighter plane—coming closer and closer. All I can do is point and gasp; my throat still burns from the vomit and my voice won't work. Gale follows my gaze and immediately turns us back toward the hovercraft. My feet won't work either, and he stumbles over me, sending us both to the ground.

Neither of us has on armor or an earpiece. My intention had been to return to the hovercraft and suit up after I either threw up or felt better. Gale pulls me back up and scoops me into his arms. I look over his shoulder as he sprints toward the hovercraft. I see the fighter plane drawing closer still, and then it's right on top of the buildings of district 7, where it pauses.

"Gale!" I scream just as the bomb drops, decimating the buildings. Almost immediately we're thrown forward and end up on the ground again. Gale is on top of me, shielding me from the shrapnel that rains down on us. I feel the impact as something strikes Gale in the back, and I can both hear and feel his yell of pain. I squeeze my eyes shut as the pounding in my head increases.

We lay on the wet ground clutching each other for maybe a minute before Boggs and Haymitch are pulling us apart. Haymitch lifts me into his arms and dashes back to the hovercraft, which has whirred to life again. We make it through the door with Boggs and Gale just behind us. Boggs is supporting Gale, who is bleeding. Haymitch sets me in a chair, and I immediately vomit a mouthful of bile onto the floor. I can hear Haymitch breathing heavily as he gently pats my back. I dry heave a few times, then I stand up and run to Gale where he is lying on the floor.

Boggs is dabbing a short, deep cut under Gale's left shoulder with rubbing alcohol. Gale breathes in sharply with pain. I burrow under his right arm, trying to give him what little solace I can even as I seek his comfort to heal myself. I silently apologize for my thoughts and words against him. Motivations and theories seem nothing compared to moments of real desperation and real pain. Boggs bandages Gale's wound, saying that it should hold up until we get back to 13.

Gale tightens his arm around me as the hovercraft takes off. I press my face into his uninjured shoulder and cry. For everything. For Gale, for Peeta, for my aching head, for Cressida and this wasted trip, for whoever may have been in the bombed buildings of 7, for my mother and Prim…

Footsteps approach and someone sits next to us on the floor. Haymitch's voice sounds very close to my ear. "Here. Just for now. You'll both be sedated when you get to the hospital. This'll tide you over for a couple of hours."

He holds two of the pain pills in his outstretched hand. I just want to feel safe and rest. I take the pills in my hand. I press one to Gale's mouth, and he takes it without complaint. Then I swallow mine. It goes down hard, irritating my sore throat, but I can already feel the relief blanketing us, providing us solace from the world.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Here's ch.2. I'm planning on having 3 in all. I still don't own Hunger Games (wish I did). And I apologize in advance for the cliffie ending.

**Chapter 2**

When I wake up in the infirmary, Haymitch is sleeping in the chair beside my bed. I move my head to get a better look at him, and the ache returns to my head. My neck is stiff and the overhead lights are bright in my eyes. I still feel a little sick, but I desperately want to get up and walk around somewhere that doesn't smell like antiseptic. I use one hand to hold my head on and push myself up with the other.

The sound of my rustling sheets wakes Haymitch. He rubs his eyes and takes in the sight of me trying weakly to get up. He smiles, then turns his head to the open door of my hospital room. "Hey, can I get a cup of coffee for me and this one?" His voice is loud.

The thought of bitter, acidic coffee turns my stomach. I dry heave a couple of times. Nothing comes up, but my mouth tastes horrible. I have to rid of the saliva somehow. I end up spitting it onto the blankets in my lap because I can't come up with any better ideas. "Fuck you," I choke. Haymitch makes a sound between a sigh and a laugh.

I remember swearing at someone else in the recent past. I strain to recall what happened the last time I was conscious. I vaguely remember an explosion, being sick, yelling at Gale, hugging him, watching him bleed…

Haymitch is pulling the spitty blanket off of me. "How's Gale?" I ask.

"Fine," Haymitch says, "He was in a little while yesterday, got some stitches. Now he's in special weapons with Beetee."

"He'll be okay?" I confirm.

"Yeah," says Haymitch, "He already is. You, on the other hand," Haymitch takes a pillow from the empty bed beside mine and props it behind my head, "better get yourself okay. We got a lot to do."

I'm about to ask what we have to do when a nurse comes in carrying a tray. She takes the cup of coffee and gives it to Haymitch. That leaves a glass of water and a cracker for me. The idea of putting anything in my body is not appealing, but I know I need to if I want to feel better anytime soon. I'm nauseous because I'm hungry. I'm not hungry because I'm nauseous.

I pick up the water glass and take a tiny sip. My instinct is to swish and spit, but I force myself to swallow. The water doesn't soothe my inflamed throat. In fact, it makes me cough. I will the water not to come up again. "Keep trying," Haymitch says good-naturedly. "It's like a hangover, it'll go away soon."

After I get another sip of water down, I ask Haymitch, "Am I on anything?"

"Not anymore," He answers. "It all should have burned out of your system by now."

"What was I on?"

"Just a sedative and the one pain reliever," He says. "Don't worry, I won't let you get too doped up.

"Thanks," I say as I take a bigger sip of my water. I'm finally realizing how thirsty I am. Dehydration is certainly not helping my head. I drain the glass, then ask Haymitch, "What do we have to do today?"

"Eat your cracker," He answers.

"Get me another water," I say. He glares at me, then leaves with my glass. I rub my forehead, hoping that whatever we're doing doesn't take too long. I want to find Gale and apologize for yelling at him. Or maybe yell at him some more. Then take a walk outside, perhaps lie in the grass and take a nap in the sun.

Haymitch returns and plunks the water on my tray. He watches me take a sip before saying, "You've gotta do dome voice overs for Cressida. For the footage from yesterday. She wants to get the propos out as soon as possible."

"What the hell did they get footage of?" I ask indignantly, "me puking?"

"They edited that part out," Haymitch says, "Plutarch says they're focusing on the bombing." That's the part where I'm on my face in the dirt. Great.

"What am I supposed to say?" I ask.

"I don't know. 'I'm not dead yet' or something. Eat your goddamn cracker."

I drain my glass, then pick up the palm-sized cracker. I nibble a corner. It's dry and bland, but it goes down okay.

I drink a third glass of water and demand a pair of pants before I let Haymitch and a nurse negotiate me into a wheelchair. Haymitch wheels me to the elevator, and we head down to the sound stage. My stomach rolls a little as the elevator moves, but I breathe deeply and force myself to settle.

Cressida and Plutarch are standing in front of the sound stage, waiting for me. "How are you feeling today?" asks Cressida.

"Better," I say.

"Wonderful," she replies, clasping her hands together.

"What do you want me to do?" I ask.

"You only need to give us a few lines. The propos will be very short," says Plutarch. I know what he's trying to get across. Don't make yesterday's trip a complete waste of time.

"Here's the edited footage we're using," says Cressida, pressing a button on the small remote control in her hand. A television screen on the wall across from me flickers on. There's an image of me walking toward the distant buildings of district 7. Gale follows a few steps behind. Then we pause next to each other. The plane appears on the horizon. I point at it. We turn, run, fall down. Gale picks me up. The bomb goes off. We fall down again. The scene fades and is replaced by an image of me and Gale lying on the floor of the hovercraft wrapped in each other's arms. Then the screen goes black again.

The whole thing makes little sense. I know there wasn't much choice of what footage to use, but the whole thing makes me look very small and weak. Granted, I had been sick out of my head, but still. It doesn't seem like an appropriate image for the mockingjay.

I look up at Plutarch. "Uhhh," I say, unsure of what I'm supposed to do. What am I supposed to say to make this pathetic montage into message of strength?

"We're hoping you can speak a little of how you feel about what happened. How you feel about the Capital after losing your cousin Gale," says Plutarch.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: And here's the grand (or not so grand) finale. This whole story came into my mind last week when there was a huge snowstorm, and it was coming down so thick that I couldn't walk ten yards from my car to my lecture hall without getting dizzy and falling down. Anyhow, still don't own Hunger Games. Enjoy.

**Chapter 3**

Losing Gale? I haven't lost Gale; at least I don't think I have. Haymitch said that he was in special weapons. Or is Haymitch lying to me? Haymitch has an only slightly better track record than Plutarch when it comes to telling me the truth. After all that went on with the games, I guess I'm still a little leery of both.

"What—losing Gale?" I whisper, "But—he—but—no." I can't string together a coherent sentence.

Plutarch glares at Haymitch. "I thought you were going to tell her," he says through gritted teeth.

"Well, I didn't," says Haymitch coolly. "I don't agree with your stupid plan. When I told you to reconsider, I thought you actually would."

While Plutarch stands there fuming, I manage to get out a complete sentence. "Gale is in special weapons?" I mean for it to come out as a defiant statement, but it turns into a warbling question.

Plutarch is still trying to keep himself from tearing Haymitch's face off, so Cressida is the one who answers. She comes to my side and kneels beside my wheelchair. She strokes my arm comfortingly. "Yes, he's perfectly safe. Absolutely fine," she says. I nod, relieved, but still confused. "It's just for the propos," she continues, "we need a catalyst, a spark to incite action. We make it appear that you've lost your dear cousin, and everyone in the districts rises to action so you can have your revenge."

"It's deeper than that, though." Plutarch has pulled himself together. "If we spread the message that Gale has been killed, he will become something of a special weapon himself. We need his work with the weapons now, and then when we launch the mission to take the capital, we'll send him in. Send the capital into confusion. Make them think they're winning, that they're breaking you down, and then turn the tables."

My face contorts in disgust. "You've told him this?" I gasp out.

"Of course," Cressida says, stroking my arm again.

"And he agreed?" My chest feels tight.

"Yes," Plutarch says lightly. "In fact, he helped develop the plan himself."

I yank my arm away from Cressida, smacking her across the face. I'm suddenly on my feet and tearing down the hall toward the elevator. I punch the button on the wall, and the metal doors open. I step inside the elevator and slump against the wall. The doors close, and I sit with my arms wrapped around my knees and my head resting against the metal wall. I train my eyes on the ceiling and let the huge wracking sob rise up from my chest. I reach up and hit the button for the special weapons floor. I struggle not to spew water and undigested cracker over the floor as the elevator descends.

When the elevator stops and the doors open, I can't make myself stand up, so I just start yelling. I hear footsteps coming toward me. Finnick arrives first, trident in hand, but he stops outside the open doors. Gale is there next, and he is immediately at my side. He takes in the sight of me with my hospital gown, overlong trousers, loose hair, and bare feet, and he wraps me in his arms.

I pause my screaming long enough to catch my breath and register that Gale is alive, warm, and here. Then I shove him hard. "What the fuck are you doing?" I screech, "Forcing me to tell the nation that you're dead?"

"Katniss," He tries to soothe, reaching for my shoulder. I jerk away.

Tears are streaming down my face. "What kind of goddamn idea is that? Making me lie to everyone. They already think all kinds of shit about me, and now I have to tell them that you're dead?"

"Katniss, no, it's not like that," He tries to speak calmly, but I can tell he's desperate to get his message across. "We need to incite action. Make the districts step up."

"But I have to manipulate people to do it!" I want to say that he's manipulating me, but I don't. Not yet.

"The people love you, they'll do anything for you. Fight for you. And I can get away from filming, work on the weapons," He's talking faster, trying to force out his feelings before I start screaming again. I refuse to swallow any of it.

"Do you not know how hard this is?" I wail, "I'm already so fucked up. Peeta's probably been tortured to death, and Coin's trying to get in my head, and I'm so tired. I'm so tired, Gale. I can't do this anymore. You can't make me pull up fake emotions whenever you feel like it!" The sobs are coming more frequently, wracking my body with tremors.

He does the only thing he can think of to soothe me. "I'm here. I've got you," Gale intones softly as he pulls my damp, trembling body into his arms. I can't take it. Not today.

I moan and flail, and I punch him in the jaw. "Get away! I don't want you!" I scream. Gale holds his bleeding lip with one hand and uses the other to push himself up. He steps back, just out of the elevator, and keeps speaking to me in his quiet tone. I reach up and hit buttons at random. The doors close, shutting Gale out, and the elevator begins to move upwards.

I rest my forehead on my knees and let myself cry without restraint. I hate Gale. I hate Plutarch and Coin. I hate Haymitch. I hate Peeta, for he was the one who started the whole ordeal of manipulating my emotions for publicity.

I hate myself. I feel so sick. So exhausted. How can I keep being the mockingjay in this state? How can I get anything done when I feel like I'm going to cry or puke every time my head throbs, which is quickly becoming all of the time? Do I even want to get anything done anymore? I'm beginning to think that I would rather just sleep forever…

The elevator stops and the doors open. I don't even know where I am. I pummel a button that closes the doors without making the elevator move. I don't want to get up. I'm sweating and trembling and sobbing and aching. I shut my eyes. Tears leak from beneath my lids. I wrap my hands around my head. It's throbbing so badly that I feel like it will fall off if I let go.

I don't know how long I sit like this. It feels like at least an hour, maybe longer. Then suddenly, the elevator begins to move. My stomach churns. The doors open and I feel strong hands on my upper arms, trying to unwrap me from my balled up position. I peel my forehead from my knees and look up into Haymitch's face. My eyes and nose are streaming, and the lights are bright.

"Come'ere," Haymitch says, pulling me to my unsteady feet. I expect him to force me back to the hospital, maybe pump some drugs into my blood, but instead, he supports me to my apartment. It's empty; my mother and Prim must still be working in the hospital. Haymitch sits me on my bed and pulls out several extra blankets.

"Lay down. You need to get yourself okay," he intones. I lay down and he tucks me in. Sobs are still pushing irregularly up from my chest and shaking my shoulders. Haymitch pats my shoulder and sighs. I hear him pull out the rattling bottle of pills and set it on my bedside table. "It's your choice, sweetheart," he says, then leaves the room.

I try to get a grip on my feverish trembling while I think about what I'm supposed to do. Take all of the pills in one mouthful? Pour them down the toilet? Do what Coin wants and take one every morning with breakfast? I don't know. I'm too pained, too exhausted to decide anything. So I do the only thing I can to bring solace. I sleep.


End file.
